


The Way You Look Tonight

by LydianNode



Series: The American Songbook [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: ...the darlingest darling who ever darlinged, Brian loves his soul brother Freddie, Depression, Gen, Language, POV First Person, Platonic Frian, Suicidal Ideation, everyone's platonically in love with Freddie because he's..., non-linear time, tw: suicidal, who loves him right back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: Brian's on tour with Q+AL but he's having a "Freddie Night."It's a Freddie night, indeed. He's on my mind every second for the rest of the concert. I imagine that if I turn, I will see him smiling at me in approval. But if I turn, he won't be there. He's gone. Long gone. Long away.





	The Way You Look Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> After working most of the summer on a rather sad story I had to admit defeat when the fourth re-write was still a dud. I was comforting myself with some old movies when I saw "Swing Time" and re-fell in love with this precious Arlen/Fields gem. This is the resulting story.

_Someday, when I'm awfully low_   
_And the world is cold,_   
_ I will feel a glow just thinking of you_   
_ And the way you look tonight._

2019

I love the controlled chaos of backstage in the moments before a concert. We all do; Adam thrives on the energy and Roger enjoys the purposefulness of it all. I love it because it allows me to go unnoticed on nights like this.

On nights when I wish Freddie were here.

I've turned the Old Lady over to Pete and now I have a few minutes to myself. There's a trunk nearby that's the perfect height for a guitar-playing perch. It's labeled, unhelpfully, _QUEEN_. I clamber up and play my twelve-string softly, just above the level of hubbub going on around me.

Adam passes by. He's in his element in these moments before the show starts, immaculately made-up and wearing a soft robe over his stage costume. He pauses in his pacing and looks over at me. "Sounds good!" he tells me cheerfully—oh, for the forgiving ears of the young—and gives me a smile I can't quite return. "You okay, Bri?"

He loves to lend a willing ear, our boy, I'm just not in that place, not right now. I stop playing long enough to give him a thumbs-up. It comes out a bit feeble, and that makes Adam frown.

I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset him, but right now I am compelled to play. It has to be the opening of "Love of My Life." Has to be. Adam is still looking at me with concern furrowing his brow when Roger appears at his side. Impeccable timing as always, Rog.

All I can think about is Freddie, my dear friend, my vanished hand, my echo of a laugh.

Roger reads me perfectly. "It's a Freddie night," he tells Adam, and then he elaborates because Adam's a lovely boy but he just doesn't KNOW. "Some nights he feels the loss more than others. Tonight, he's hurting more than usual. It happens."

"What about you?" asks Adam, head cocked to one side. Especially since talking about what the movie didn't quite show, Adam has begun to understand the depth of Roger's bond with Freddie.  
  
"Oh, of course I do. But I'm hiding behind my kit most of the time. Truthfully, sometimes I wonder how he gets out there and does...that." Roger takes a long breath. "He's asked me to sing it, but I honestly don't think I could."

I would love to have Roger by my side during those minutes. He'd have to put his heart on his sleeve, though, and that's too much to ask of him.

"Places!"  
  
It's time to get out of my own head. Easier said than done. I try to lose myself in the roar of the fans, try to concentrate on listening to Roger and Adam and the rest of our band. I get a strong sensation that Freddie's right here somehow, just behind me, and I can hear an extra edge to my solos as I try to impress him. Off in the wings, Pete is looking at me with question marks all over his face.

I have to push Freddie aside and remember the people who are here, right in front of me, holding up enough cell phones to light up an airport runway.

Easier said than done, indeed, because now it's time for "Love of My Life." Roger hangs back a little, pretending to ensure that my stool is carefully placed on the mark to align me with the projection. I nod my thanks and he pats my shoulder before heading backstage.

For a while I'm at peace, borne aloft on the sweet voices from the audience. A sudden loud cheer surprises me and I make the mistake of looking behind myself.

Never look back. Never fear. Never cry.

There he is. Freddie. Healthy, happy, having a great time. Eyes sparkling with affection and mischief, basking in the adulation of the thousands who watch his every move. The sense of loss nearly suffocates me and my fingers tremble against the strings. Tears prick at my eyes, turning the lights into a thousand stars. I'm playing my heart out, as if Freddie could miraculously hear me, so the tears will just have to stay there until I'm done. They sting as they trickle down my face, into the creases worn there by time and grief.

Would he recognise me, a grey-haired old man weeping in front of thousands?

In the end, as he does every night, Freddie walks away and disappears. I wipe my face on my shirtsleeve; perhaps the people in the audience will think it was just sweat. I smile out at the audience and catch the eye of a young woman toward the front who is mopping up tears of her own, and she gives me a grateful, understanding smile.

It's a Freddie night, indeed. He's on my mind every second for the rest of the concert. I imagine that if I turn, I will see him smiling at me in approval. But if I turn, he won't be there. He's gone. Long gone. Long away.

Roger sidles up to me more frequently than usual, nudging my arm with his or just standing close enough to offer his silent strength. God bless him and his loyal heart, he keeps me from breaking down onstage.

I'll wait until I get back to my room to do that.

***

_Oh, but you're lovely_   
_With your smile so warm_   
_ And your cheek so soft._

1976

The more famous we become, the more isolated we become. John's the one to bring it up, and it really is true. Separate limos, separate meals, separate hotel rooms. After years of post-show Freddie, the quiet is always unsettling.

The one thing we ask for, and usually get, is to be in adjoining rooms. Roger and John like to share drinks—and possibly girls, but they're not telling and I'm certainly not asking—after a show. It's easier for them to just pop in and out of a shared door. Freddie likes to be next to me because he claims that my snoring is so rhythmic that it helps him get to sleep. But there's another reason, one that we don't talk about.

We don't mind talking about Freddie's sexuality. We've discussed that, Roger and John and I, especially when he first told us. It's not even that he likes to go out and party after the gig, because we all do that. What we don't talk about are the nights when the loneliness makes it impossible for him to sleep, or the nights he has a bad experience with one of the men I can't bear to think about. There are men who hurt him, vile and cruel, who dare to lay an uncaring hand on someone so completely loving.

I hope this wasn't one of those nights.

I'm lying in bed reading when Freddie quietly opens the connecting door. He always enters with cat-like silence, just in case I'm asleep. He hasn't figured out yet that I stay up every night until I know he's safe.

"What's up, Fred?" I ask as he fidgets with the sash of his kimono.

"Just felt a bit lonely."

That's clearly not true, but I'm not going to call him on it. Tears have faintly smudged the eyeliner, giving his dark eyes a shadowy sadness that pierces my heart. At least there don't seem to be any bruises this time.

He gives me a shy, sweet little smile. It's breathtaking. Roger claims he only ever smiles like that when he's looking at me. Part of me, the selfish part, hopes that's true. I set aside my book and hold up the duvet.

Grinning, Freddie sheds his kimono with his trademark grace. I recognise the green silk boxer shorts. "Those are mine!"

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law, darling."

"Chrissy gave those to me for my birthday."

"It's more blessed to give than to receive."

They look better on him anyway. I let out an exaggerated sigh and point to the empty place in my bed. "Are you getting in, or are you going to practice your clichés on me until I die of boredom?"

"Someone's bitchy," Freddie coos as he slides under the sheets. He loves to cuddle with anyone who'll stay still long enough, and within seconds his sleepy-warm body is right next to mine. We stay like that for a while, contemplating the bland hotel ceiling. "Penny for them," Freddie whispers.

I'm not even sure what my thoughts are. I'm sleepy and tired. Tomorrow we have a long flight and another show, and another long flight and another show the day after. I lose all track of myself on the road. John telephones Veronica every night and Roger keeps a journal, but I simply put one foot in front of the other and keep hoping for the best. Freddie grounds me. As unlikely as it seems, he's my one constant in an out-of-control existence.

Freddie turns over to snuggle against me. His cheek is on my collarbone, soft above and stubbled beneath. That's Freddie, the epitome of a contradiction in terms. I put my arms around him and breathe him in. My brilliant, whimsical friend. Stay. Stay.

***

_There is nothing for me but to love you_   
_ Just the way you look tonight._

1974

There's not much left of swinging London, and Bayswater is whatever the opposite of "swinging" might have been.

Freddie is quivering with excitement as he ushers me along Porchester Road. "I've chatted with Zandra, and she is just thrilled to be designing for us!"

"I have no clue what we're going to use to pay a designer, but okay, Fred."

"She's looking to expand. She's done some things for Marc Bolan, and dressing us might bring her some more clients." Freddie glances at the address he's written on the palm of his hand. "Just a few doors down, I think."

"Expand from what?"

Freddie comes to a halt in front of a window full of white satin confections. "These, darling!"

What has he got us into?

"Freddie...these are wedding gowns."  
  
"Ten points to Brian for the correct answer. Look at those SLEEVES on that one, aren't they marvelous? Just imagine them onstage."

What I can imagine is the laugh that John and Roger will enjoy at our expense, but I don't say that. Freddie rings the bell and a woman's voice comes over the intercom. "Up two flights. The shop's closed so there's no one here but me."

Wearing platform boots isn't my idea of comfortable or quiet footwear, but Freddie insisted so up we go, clomping like elephants up the winding, narrow wooden steps. When we reach the top we're greeted by a woman with short, unnaturally coloured hair who's dressed in enough tie-dye fabric to swath the entire floor. "Come in, boys. You must be Brian; Freddie warned me that one of you was insanely tall. And you must be Freddie!"  
  
They embrace as if they were long-lost friends. Freddie pushes his fringe back from his face as he starts talking. "You have the perfect outfit in the window, the one with the gorgeous crystal pleats. Very Balenciaga - that's the look we're going for."

I don't even know what he's talking about, but Zandra lights up like a Christmas tree. "You know fashion! Oh, that will make this so much easier."

Hiding his grin behind one hand, Freddie explains. "I used to run a clothing stall at Kensington Market."  
  
"So did I, back in the day! Perhaps we've met...no, no." She examines Freddie from head to toe. "I'd remember someone as striking as you."

"Oh, dear, no." Freddie waves away the thought like smoke. "He's the striking one."

Is there someone else in the room with us? I turn around and both Freddie and Zandra start laughing. "I think he means YOU, dear."

Oh, God, I'm going to be "deared" and "darlinged" to death by the time this is over.

Freddie is bounding up and down the rails, pointing out clothing he thinks will work. He must be finding something fantastic because he widens his eyes and beckons us over. "THIS!" he cries.

"Oh, it's just the bodice—the skirt is separate so the bride can wear long for church and short for dancing." Zandra takes the white...thing...off of the hanger. But she's not looking at Freddie; she's looking at me. "I'd need to make it a lot longer, of course, but it's a start." She draws an imaginary circle in the air. "Shirt off, please."

Freddie nods encouragingly. There's no way out; I unbutton my shirt and lay it carefully on a chair covered with some sort of rough, beige material with lots of markings on it. I'm afraid to touch this thing, so I bend my knees and Zandra drops it over my head.

It's surprisingly heavy. Thick pleats run along the front and the sleeves are...

"Angel wings!" Freddie claps his hands, delighted. "Look at how it drapes off of you. And look at that narrow little waist!"

Zandra shoots him a quizzical gaze then looks back at me and rolls her eyes. I'm a skinny bloke but Freddie is even smaller, so his comment makes me wonder what he sees when he looks in the mirror. My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden tug behind me. My next breath is shallow and makes me cough.

"It laces up the back like a corset," Zandra explains as she threads silk cord through loops in the back. "There, what do you think?"

I think I look like something you'd stick atop a Christmas tree, but Freddie looks at me with such admiration that I decide to keep my mouth shut. "That's it, that's absolutely it. Can you put black piping here, between the pleats, so it'll show better onstage?"

Zandra is already sketching, lengthening the tunic thing and making the sleeves even more fantastical. Freddie grabs her pencil. "Here, and here, something to keep the sleeves off of his guitar. Hem weight at the bottom? Or maybe some velvet just inside, like so?"

They're speaking in artistic terms, as alien to me as astronomy is to Freddie. I watch, amused, as Freddie tries on a couple of tops similar to mine, but with even more "crystal pleats" and a generally more outlandish air. He swings his arms, giving a satisfied nod at how the fabric feels as it swishes and swirls around him. "I have to be able to move my arms. REALLY move them," he tells Zandra, who nods and keeps drawing.

"So," Zandra clarifies as she continues to sketch. "Like these, in heavy white satin?"

"Perfect!"

I've seldom felt so ridiculous in my life. Freddie doesn't seem to notice, wrapped up in his delight at finding stage costumes as outrageous as his nature. I want the ground to open up and swallow me but he's in his element. Night and day, moon and sun.

He turns me toward the mirror and pushes me into a relatively empty chair. He stands behind me, glowing. "I just knew you'd look like a Beardsley drawing come to life. You're exquisite."

The top is starting to grow on me, but it's Freddie who looks exquisite. I look at us in the mirror, and he gives me his trademark "Brian" smile.

"We're enchanted creatures, Brimi, you and I," he whispers, and suddenly I want to spend the rest of my life dressed just like this.

***

_With each word your tenderness grows_   
_Tearing my fear apart._

1978

It's not the sad-eyed goodbye, although Chrissy was crying a bit when she left three days ago. She and the baby are at her mum's. She'll come back when the dog is gone.

We don't have a dog.

I have a dog.

The Black Dog.

It comes once in a while, the Black Dog. Black Dog, Black Fog. Dog-Fog that leaves me with no sense of direction and no will to even live. I can't, I won't take my own life, much as I want to, because my life's not my own. I have Chrissy and Jimmy, and Mum and Dad. I have three friends who can't understand what comes over me when I'm like this, why I won't even sit through a rehearsal much less play.

Let them go on without me. They're better off. I'm a scam, anyway, a failure. NME says I'm overrated. Rolling Stone laughs at me. The universe is vast and I'm nothing. My father thinks I'm an idiot who threw his life away.

If only I could throw it away. Do the jump. Take the pills. Make the cuts.

But I'm too much of a coward.

So I sit on the sofa and stare at the Dog-Fog behind my eyes. Maybe if I just sit here long enough, I'll drift into nothingness.

Sounds good.

My son's too young to know me, and Chrissy’s so beautiful inside and out that she'd easily find a real man to love her the way she deserves. She and Jimmy will have much better lives. I have to trust in that, because I don't believe there's anything beyond this mortal coil.

I won't actually know what happens to them. I won't know if Roger's eyes will fill with tears, or if John will turn white with shock and grief. I don't know if Freddie will break down at the keyboard. I won't be here to see it. I'll be gone.

Gone. That's the first word that's appealed to me in a week.

I don't move when I hear a key in the lock. Chrissy must have forgotten something. She'll tiptoe past and ruffle my hair and tell me she loves me, but how could she love such a useless lump of clay?

Those aren't her footsteps, though. They're light enough, but they fall rapidly, rhythmically. Musically.

Freddie sits next to me on the sofa and puts something down on the coffee table. He doesn't say anything. One arm slips around me while he lightly presses his lips to my cheek. I haven't shaved. Doesn't seem to bother him. Gently, tenderly, he pulls me toward him so my head rests on his shoulder. I haven't washed my hair, or my body, in days, so I know I must smell revolting. He gives no sign of aversion, of his usual fastidiousness. His fingers delicately untangle my hair strand by strand as he starts to sing softly.

"Come and get me,  
Let me  
Get in that sinking feeling  
That says my heart is on an all-time low."

He knows. He knows I want to go. But his voice pulls me back.

"Come into my enclosure  
And meet my melancholy blues."

Freddie is gone when I wake up. I think I might have dreamed him, but there's a faint remnant of his cologne on the cushion and a box on the table. I move through the fog and open it. Oh, Freddie. He brought me a box of Jer's biscuits, my favourites.

My mouth waters and the Black Dog begins to skulk away.

***

_And that laugh that wrinkles your nose_   
_Touches my foolish heart._

1986

I've never seen Freddie so frazzled. He's holding the words of a Hungarian folk song in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, struggling to put the unfamiliar sounds together.

At least we've ditched the film crew. There are some small mercies to be had.

My struggle is with the chords, which are frankly childish. I fiddle with one cadence, changing it slightly, and Freddie descends on me like a summer storm.

"It's a national fucking treasure! You can't alter a single THING."

"They're not going to be listening to me! I might as well entertain myself a bit!"

"I'll tell you what else you can do with yourself!"

"Fred, we're on the hotel roof. Half of Buda can hear you."

"They won't understand me! Fuck, why does their fucking language have to be so FUCKING difficult?"

It's a ludicrous argument, to be sure, and we end up laughing like maniacs. His nose wrinkles as he keeps giggling through the next two tries. We run through it again—I stick to the chord structure, which is distressingly close to "Alouette"—and once again Freddie chokes on the lyrics.

He grimaces at his inability to learn the words. "Just strum loudly and vigourously when I blow it."

"You won't blow it," I assure him, plucking a harmonic that will make the accompaniment a bit less pedestrian.

"Hmm." Freddie swills the last of his wine and gives the song a try from memory. "It's going to be ghastly. Keep your side of the door unlocked in case the State Police come to arrest me for massacring this song. I may need sanctuary."

So dramatic. "Freddie, I always leave the door open."

"Good." He leans forward, smiling, not bothering to cover his teeth. The "Brian" smile that I can feel deep in my bones. "You're my sanctuary, you know. Always have been."

I stop playing. My heart is beating far too quickly. Yes, of course, we're in a band and we've been friends for ages, but to be considered this man's sanctuary is an honour I don't deserve.

The moment ends as suddenly as it began. Looking annoyed, Freddie rattles the paper and groans. "I will never in a million years remember these syllables!"

"You won't have to." I pull out the permanent marker that I always keep at hand for autograph-seekers. "Give me your hand."

Giggling delightedly, Freddie starts fanning himself with the lyric sheet. "Why, Brian, this is so sudden!"

"Cork it. Hand, please." I write the words out on his palm.

Freddie blows on the ink to dry it, then he puts his clean hand on my chin. For just an instant I can feel his breath against my face as he whispers, "Virágom." He brushes my cheek with his lips, briefly. "Darling."

I've never loved him more.

***

_Lovely, never ever change_   
_Keep that breathless charm_   
_ Won't you please arrange it, 'cause I love you_   
_ Just the way you look tonight._

2019

Virágom.

I don't realise I've said it out loud until Roger grins at me. "Is that where you've been all night? Budapest?"

He's using the dressing table opposite mine. I can see him in his mirror, reflected in my mirror. Escher would love this setup. Roger's hair is white and thinning, plastered to his head in post-show sweat just as mine is, but his eyes are still that youthful sky-blue, the colour of infinite hope, twinkling at me as he watches me clean the makeup off of my face.

"Here and there," I respond. My hands aren't as steady as they should be, even after playing for two hours and a bit, so I just wipe away what I can and leave the rest for the shower.

Roger doesn't say anything for a few minutes. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to get dressed; he just sits with his cell phone in hand while I change into jeans and a light jumper. I must be giving off what Deacy used to call "gloomy-guts" vibes because he swivels about and puts his hand on my forearm. "Anything I can do, Bri?"

What did I do to deserve this man as my dearest friend?

I make myself smile and look into his eyes. There's sorrow in them, of course, because Roger may put on a suit of armour but the windows to his soul are wide open. Sometimes we talk about it, cry about it, laugh about it. But I need Freddie to myself tonight, and he'll understand.

"It'll pass," is all I say, but we wink at one another in sympathy. We've both been here. "Breakfast tomorrow?"

Roger nods, smiling, and returns to his phone. I slip out of the dressing room, passing through the post-show activity with a few waves and cries of "great show!" to accompany me. I step into the waiting limo, still a bit lost in my thoughts, and almost forget to thank the driver when we get to the hotel.

It's a relief to step into the cool anonymity of yet another hotel room. There's something odd, though: on the desk, next to my laptop, are two champagne flutes, and a hammered brass bucket contains a bottle of champagne.

Freddie used to do this when he needed to charm his way back into my good graces after an argument, peering anxiously around our shared door to make certain that his gesture has worked its magic.

I know it was Roger. Crafty old bugger, that's why he was holding his phone, waiting for me to leave. The label reads Belle Époque: Beautiful Age. Good choice, Roger. I pop the cork and fill both glasses.

Roger won't be showing up to drink the other one, of course. It's a ritual, like Elijah's cup at a Seder. Roger swears that once in a while the level of the second glass will go down. Just a sip.

Whether it's evaporation or Freddie, I don't care. I raise my glass to him, wherever he is, everywhere he is, and drink my portion.

I ain't never sayin' goodbye.

Nerves calming, exhaustion curling around me like the smell of incense, I shrug off my clothing and put on an old tour t-shirt and a pair of ancient pyjama pants Anita has been begging me to throw away. The book I was reading last night is still on the nightstand. I set my champagne next to it and switch on the lamp. I'm about to get into bed when a sudden urge overtakes me.

I pad barefoot across the room and unlock the door between my room and the next. I don't know who's in there, or if it's empty. Just in case. I want Freddie to be able to find his drink. To find me, even if only it's in my dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Tumblr for fic! Come chat with me: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiascribbling .


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